What Really Happened
by Dot
Summary: At least my version of it...
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: 

Okay, so this isn't exactly Newsies fan fiction, but it's related, so I put it here. This is my version of what happened during the strike. Not as funny or clever as Newsies, but hey, nothing is as funny or clever as Newsies. I borrowed a few things from Disney and I improve the truth a little, but I'm not making any money, so please don't sue me! (You wouldn't get much from me anyway) This is my first fanfic, so please read and review! 

In case you didn't know this: Morris Cohen started the strike, Racetrack was really a Brooklyn newsie, David's last name was Simons, and Pulitzer was incapacitated by 1899 and had no contact with the newsies. 

Chapter One 

"Hurry up!" 

The running newsboy fumbled in his pocket, feeling for pennies. "I can't run no faster!" he cried. Finally, he pulled four pennies from his jacket pocket and held them up to the man. 

The man reached for them. Just as their hands were about to touch, the boy tripped, landing hard on the cobblestone street. The noisy trolley disappeared around the corner as a tall, lean figure stepped from the shadows, looking down at the fallen newsie. "How much you get?" 

Jack Sullivan lifted his head, blue eyes shining and flashed a triumphant grin at his friend. "A nickel." 

Morris Cohen grabbed Sully's hand and hauled him to his feet. "Pretty good." 

Sully dusted himself off. "Well, that was my last pape." Morris nodded and the two boys began walking into the twilight. "Morris?" 

"Yeah?" 

"D'ya ever feel guilty? Y'know about takin' `em like that?" 

Morris stopped and nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes I do." 

"Stop!" a voice yelled from behind them. They spun to see the man from the trolley running down the street. 

Eyes wide, Morris and Sully darted looks at each other. "Cheez it!" they yelled in unison and ran down the street. 

They'd lost the man blocks before, but they didn't stop running until they'd reached Duane Street. By then they were out of breath, but laughing. Pushing open the door of the newsboys lodging house, they entered the home they shared with nearly thirty other boys. 

"Heya, Mr. Wiesel," Sully said cheerfully, heading for the staircase. Author's note: Couldn't resist! 

Weisel shot them a sour look. "Hold it boys. Rent's due." 

Morris and Sully stopped and backed up to the desk. They both dug into their pockets and forked over the week's rent: forty-two cents. They both turned to go when Weisel stopped them. "This ain't enough." 

Morris turned. "What are you talking about? Count it. Forty-two cents a piece." 

"Rent's up. Seven cents a night." 

"What?" Sully demanded. 

"I got to eat too. Now hand it over, or get another place to stay." 

Sully looked at Morris, who nodded imperceptibly. They both slammed down seven cents and turned back to the stairs. "Lousy bum," Sully muttered. 

"I heard that!" Weisel called after them as they climbed the stairs to the bunkroom. 

They entered it solemnly. "Hey, guys," Morris called. 

He got a few grunts from the boys sprawled out on the bunks. One of the boys nearest the door raised up on his elbow and shot them a sullen, angry look. "I suppose you heard about the jack up." 

"Yeah, Huey, we heard." 

"These bunks ain't worth seven cents a night," Kid Blink, a skinny black-haired boy wearing an eye-patch over his left eye, called out. 

Sully grinned and climbed onto his bunk. "They ain't worth six cents neither, but they got that from us." 

"Lights out, boys!" Weisel's voice yelled from below them. 

Morris dropped onto his bunk, then noticed the empty bed across from him. "Where's Davey?" 

Blink answered. "Aw, he's probably out with his goil." 

That led to snickers all around the room. Except from Morris, who stared quietly at the ceiling. 


	2. Chapter Two

Okay, two brief notes: I got the name of the restaurant (Van Wurtz) from City Hall Park 

A brief note (okay, two of `em): I got the name of the restaurant (Van Wurtz) from City Hall Park. And I really, really, really suck at writing accents. 

Chapter Two 

Muted light filtered through the dirty windows into the crowded bunkroom. The boys shifted uncomfortably, shielding their eyes. Morris was the first to rise, trying to stretch the crick from his neck. He yawned and slapped Sully's arm. "Wake up, ya lousy bum." 

Sully shifted, the dreamy smile on his boyish face faltering. "I hate waking up to your ugly face." 

"Well, you ain't the picture of grace and beauty yerself," Morris said, turning to enter the washroom. Before he did, he noticed David's bed still hadn't been slept in. He shrugged it off and headed to the washroom. 

Bleary hazel eyes gazed into the cracked mirror. The boy staring back at him was seventeen, with thick black hair and skin bronzed by the sun and weathered by the wind. He looked old for his age, like many of the newsies did. 

He turned on the sink, dismayed to find the water freezing cold. "Great," he murmured. He splashed some water on his face and shivered. 

By the time he'd dried his face, the other newsies were spilling into the washroom. Taking turns at the showers and sinks, they were all ready to go in less than a half an hour. They clopped down the stairs and headed across Manhattan. 

The newsies all sold for different papers, but most sold for either the Journal or the World, the papers belonging to millionaires Hearst and Pulitzer. Morris and Sully parted when they reached the corner, Sully heading for the Journal, Morris for the World. Morris was first in a long line to get papers. "Hundred papes," he said, slamming down sixty cents. 

"Selling light today, Cohen?" the distributor asked, sliding a hundred papers through the window. 

Morris grabbed the papes. "Bad headline." 

The headline was bad, but that had never stopped a newsie. Their life's work was to improve the headline and to cheat the customer. Morris paged through the paper, looking for something to sell. He rolled his eyes at the headline on the top of page two: Peaches not abundant at Manhattan open market. He let out a sigh, then smiled. Holding up a paper, he started calling out, "Extra, extra! Famine spreads through Manhattan! Get your papers here!" 

Using that headline and others he found in the pages overlooked by most customers, he sold nearly half his papes before lunchtime. With a satisfied smile, Morris headed for the little restaurant where he always met Sully. He hadn't gotten a few steps from the crowded square that he usually sold in when a voice called out his name. 

Morris turned to see a short, scrawny boy wriggling through the crowd, waving his arm and calling out to him. He grinned and shook his head. The boy's name was Joe Kiernan, but he was known as Hungry Joe on account of him eating so much, but always being skinny as a beanpole. Joe made his way to Morris in a couple of moments. Morris looked at him and asked, "Well?" 

Joe struggled to catch his breath, then said animatedly, "Spot me a dime?" 

Morris burst into laughter. "Where's your papes, Joe? Don't tell me you sold `em all." 

Joe bit his lip and kicked the ground. "I kinda… I didn't have the money to buy `em. They're kinda `spensive, y'know?" 

Morris sighed and dug into his pocket. He handed Joe a dime, then gave him the rest of his papers. "Ya might think about selling for the Sun, Joe. It's cheaper." 

Joe laughed as he tucked the papes under his arm. "I don't wanna starve, Morris! Everyone knows the yellows sell the best!" The boy sobered. "Thanks. Yer a pal, Morris." 

"Go sell some papes, ya lazy bum!" Morris said with a grin. Joe nodded and scurried back into the crowd, shouting some headline about a fire. Morris shook his head, almost worriedly, and continued to the restaurant. 

The restaurant was called Van Wurtz and it was near the lodging house. Morris arrived before Sully, as he usually did and so he had some time to sit and read, one of the more unusual habits for a newsie. He drummed his fingers silently on the table while he paged through the book he'd bought the day before. 

Sully sliding into the booth beside him made him raise his head. "Whatcha reading?" he asked. 

"Alger," Morris said shortly. 

"Algae?" Sully replied, confused. 

Morris chuckled. "Horatio Alger. He writes about newsies and bootblacks, y'know. Like us. In the end they all become rich and famous somehow. Lovely thought, huh?" he said, putting the book down. "Davey didn't come back last night, did he?" He asked, changing the subject. 

Sully snorted. "Nope. Maybe he fell off the bridge." 

Morris was about to reply when the doors to Van Wurtz swung open and a girl entered. She was petite, with dark blonde hair streaked gold by the summer sun. She wore boys' clothes and carried a small bundle of the Sun over her shoulder. "Morris!" she called, hurrying to their table. 

He smiled at her, one of his rare, flashing smiles. "Heya, Sunshine." 

Annie looked too worried to smile at the nickname. "David's missing. We were supposed to meet last night and when he didn't come, I figured he was with you boys. But Blink told me he never came home." 

Morris tried to look reassuring. "Maybe he wandered off to Brooklyn." 

"Maybe he fell off the bridge," Sully repeated under his breath. 

"We gotta find him. I'm worried," Annie begged. 

Morris sighed. "I'll take bottle alley and the harbor. You take Central Park, okay? Those are his usual selling spots." 

"What about me?" Sully asked, hating to be left out. 

"You run over to Brooklyn, see if he was there last night," Morris said. He stood, tucking his paperback in his back pocket. "We'll meet back at the lodging house." 

All three newsies left the small cafÃ© and headed for their various search spots. Morris had no luck at the harbor, which was closest, but as he neared bottle alley, he could hear voices and fight noises. Rolling his eyes, he ran around the corner, into the alley, where, as he'd thought, two men were fighting- or rather, beating- David. 

"Hey!" he cried, as a distraction. "Why don't you try your odds with two of us?" The guys both laughed and moved forward. Morris shook his head. "Y'know, boys, violence ain't gonna solve nothing," he said- right before catching the closest guy in the jaw with a mean right hook. 

David had stood and gotten a bit of his bearings back, if not all and picked up a crate from the ground, smashing it over the second guys head. After a few minutes of fighting, both Morris and David saw an opportunity and turned and ran from the alley. They didn't speak until they reached the bunkroom of the lodging house. When they did, Morris said simply, "I thought you were gonna pay `em." 

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	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three 

Chapter Three 

"I thought that you we're gonna pay `em." 

"I was!" David protested, sitting on the edge of his bed. He winced and put a hand to the bleeding cut on his forehead. 

"You said you had the money." 

"I did!" 

"Well, what happened?" Morris demanded, angry. 

Sully chose that moment to enter the room. "Morris, Davey was in Brooklyn-" he said, then stopped when he noticed David. "But now he's here." 

Morris nodded. "Yeah, he's here." He turned back to David. "Brooklyn?" 

He nodded. "There was a big poker game and I kinda-" 

"Lost all yer money?" 

"Yeah." 

"Davey, you know better than to bet all yer money in Brooklyn. You may be a good poker player, but you ain't crap compared to Brooklyn!" 

"I screwed up. I know that." 

"Do you?" Morris asked, then sighed. 

Sully spoke then. "Who won the game?" 

David said softly, "Racetrack." 

"He's a good guy. I'll see what I can do-" 

Morris cut him off. "No, you won't." 

"But-" 

"No. We're not going to beg to Brooklyn for squat. Race won the game," Morris said. "I'll loan you the money, David." 

David just looked at him, his green eyes icy. "I don't want yer money. And I don't want Sully groveling to Racetrack. I'll get it myself." 

Just then, the doors to the lodging house swung open and the newsies sauntered in, bellies full from the dinner of pork and beans the lodging house served for six cents. "Hey, Davey. Glad you came back," Blink said, grinning. He lost his smile when he noticed the lumps and bruises on his best friend. "What happened?" 

Sully answered before David could. "He had a little accident. Ran into a guy's fist." 

"Twenty times by the look of it," Blink joked, slapping David on the back. David winced and glared at him. He stretched out on his bed, which was next to David's. He smiled, "So how did everybody do today?" 

Sully laughed and put his feet up, opening a stray copy of the Journal. "Ah, despite bad headlines, we thrive." The conversation went on a while, David and Morris glaring at each other more than talking. Until suddenly Sully whistled. "Whoa," he said, for lack of a better word. 

"What?" Morris asked. 

"There was a riot last right." 

David chuckled. "Trolley workers? Old news, Jacky-boy." 

Sully shot him a murderous look. "No. Not the trolley workers. Our boys in Long Island. They knocked over a wagon and destroyed the papes. Sick of broken promises, I guess." 

"Took guts," Morris commented, opening his book. 

"Maybe its time we got some," Sully said. 

"Oh, what do you suggest? That we march into Willie's office and demand he lower the prices?" David asked sarcastically. 

Sully shrugged. "Someone has to." 

"What are you talking about Sully?" Blink asked. 

"Look, they said the prices would go down once the war was over. Well, the war's over and the prices still ain't down. So, I says it's time we do something about it." 

"Like what?" 

"A strike." The word hung heavy in the air. Conversation around them ceased until David busted out with laughter. He stopped, wincing. Sully shot him another glare. "What? It's a good idea! The whole world's on strike!" he cried, slamming the paper onto the bed. 

"And what about the bulls? You know what they do to strikers," Blink said. 

"The bulls are busy with the trolley strike. They won't have time for a bunch of street rats." 

Morris looked up from his book. "The kid's got a point." Sully smiled gratefully as Morris pulled himself to a sitting position. "We can't let `em take us like this. If we strike-" 

"This is crazy, Morris," David said, cutting him off sharply. 

Morris continued quietly. "If we strike, we get what we deserve, get what they promised us." He looked at the boys around them. "So who's with me?" 

The boys crowding around murmured their agreement slowly, until the murmur had become a roar. Morris looked to Dave. "So?" 

David shrugged. "I guess I'm in." He smirked slightly. "So, what do we do?" 

Morris thought a moment, then said, "We give `em one more chance to keep their word and lower the prices." He looked around at the crowd of faces. "Boots," he said to the short eleven-year-old, "you head over to the World. Mush," he continued, turning to the tall, skinny kid sitting on the edge of Blink's bed, "you go to the Journal. Tell `em what's going on. Tell `em that we'll strike." 

Boots and Mush nodded, wide-eyed, and scampered off to visit the city's most powerful men. David looked at Morris with skeptical eyes. "Do you actually believe they'll listen?" 

Morris shook his head. "Not a chance." 

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	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

Chapter Four 

They didn't listen, and the next morning, the newsboys of Manhattan officially went on strike. They rioted on Park Row and on Broad. The ground of City Hall Park was littered with newsprint. 

The newsies stood in the center of the World distribution center, triumphant, papers surrounding them as they tore and toppled stacks of the yellows. Sully was right; the police were too busy to respond- for a while. It was late afternoon before the cops showed up. 

"Cheez it!" someone yelled, noticing the mounted police riding into the square. "It's the bulls!" 

The newsies scattered as the cops rushed into the square, grabbing fleeing newsies as quickly as they could. One cop grabbed Annie's arm and pulled her away, toward the wagon. 

"Hey!" Huey cried, diving for the cop. The bull let go of Annie's arm, giving her a chance to get away, and struggled to get the squirming fourteen-year-old off his back. He did eventually, and tossed the boy in the wagon, along with three others nabbed by the bulls. The newsies could only watch as the wagon rode away, Huey's face pressed against the bars. 

"You've got five minutes," the officer said. 

Morris silenced Sully before he could retort and they entered the jail. "Well, Kuehn, look what a mess you got yerself into this time." 

Huey looked up from the breakfast gruel he was picking at and grinned. "Heya, fellas. How's it going?" 

Sully grinned. "Better, now that you ain't around to screw everything up." 

"How'd you get in here?" 

Morris smiled and said, "We're your union representatives, after all." 

Sully scoffed. "Morris bribed the bull five bucks," he informed him with a grin. In a quick motion, Sully tossed a small package of candy to Huey. "From the guys." 

Huey grinned and tore into the package. "Gee, thanks!" 

"What'd they give you?" Morris asked, leaning against the bars. 

"Three months prob'ly," Huey said through a mouth full of licorice. "They're sendin' me to the Refuge later this mornin'." 

"Should be loads of fun," Sully muttered sarcastically. 

"At least I'll get three squares a day, better than I get on the streets." 

Morris opened his mouth to reply when the guard shouted, "Times up, boys!" 

Morris reached through the bars to shake Huey's hand. "Take care of yerself." 

Sully imitated Morris and grinned. "Beware of the rats." 

"Get out of there or you'll be staying for the night!" the cop warned, ushering them out. 

Sully shot back, "Hold yer horses, we're comin', we're comin'." 

They barely heard Huey's call of, "Good luck." 

"We gotta do something." 

Morris kicked the ground, sending a cloud of dust up around the crowd of boys standing around City Hall Park. "Whaddya mean?" 

Sully replied, "You know exactly what I mean! They keep locking us up, there ain't gonna be no one left to strike!" 

"And what are we supposed to do about it?" Morris demanded, not liking where Sully was going with it. 

"There ain't enough of us." 

"We've got Jersey-" 

"We need Brooklyn." 

"We've got Yonkers." 

"We need Spot." 

"No." 

"Morris-" 

"Jack! I said no! We've got `em on the run. I am not going to Spot!" Morris sighed and looked to Sully. "You with me?" 

Sully nodded reluctantly, running a hand through his curly blond hair. "I'm with you." 

Two hours after sunset, the streets of Manhattan were quiet. The gentle clopping of horse hooves was the only sound to be heard. The group moved silently through the darkness, following the wagon. It had almost reached the World distribution center, when the boys let out a war cry and attacked. 

They hit the sides violently, tipping the wagon. The driver was jerked from his seat as other boys tore papers and threw them around. 

Nobody heard the police riding up. 

Morris climbed atop the fallen wagon, leading the boys in a chant of, "Strike, strike!" when Annie saw the cop ride up. She opened her mouth to shout a warning to the guys when she saw the glint of a gun in his hand. 

"Morris!" she screamed, fighting her way forward. 

He didn't hear her. But Sully, standing next to him, did. He moved fast, shoving Morris off of the wagon. Just as he did, the shot rang out. It missed Morris, who fell to the pavement, the wind knocked out of him. 

Sully landed hard next to him. Morris struggled for breath, then sat slowly up, coughing. "Thanks, Sully." 

The people were scattering in a panic. But even so, Morris was sure he would have heard a reply. Hands shaking, he reached out tentatively and touched Sully's still form. Even as he turned him over, he knew. 

The policeman's bullet had hit its mark: the heart of the strike. 

Annie shoved her way through the last of the crowd until she'd made it to Morris and Sully. She opened her mouth to ask if they were all right when her eyes focused on the sight before her. 

Morris kneeled on the cobblestone, crouching over Sully's lifeless body. He was crying and his clothes were bloodstained. She didn't think he noticed or cared. 

Her eyes filled. "Oh, dear Lord," she cried. 

Morris looked up at her, face tear-stained and tortured. He opened his mouth, then shook his head and stood. He slowly walked away. She tried to call out to him, but her voice got lost in the wind. 

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	5. Chapter Five

Ok, really short chapter. I haven't had much time lately, but I will update again soon.  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Dawn broke over the Brooklyn Bridge as Morris crossed it at a clipped pace. He hadn't been to Brooklyn in what seemed like years, but he still knew his way through the twisting back alleys that led to the docks where he knew he'd find Spot.  
  
Morris was greeted by the plaintive wail of a harmonica. He could see Spot's outline against the gray sky in the shadowy morning light. Abruptly the playing stopped and the head of the outline turned sharply toward him. "Morris?" Spot Conlon's voice rang out, suspicious and cold.  
  
Morris took a deep breath and said, "Heya, Spot."  
  
Spot stepped from the shadows. The Brooklyn leader was tall and sinewy. He was younger than Morris by nearly three years, but there was a keen intelligence in his eyes. Those eyes looked him over silently. He must have noted the smattering of blood on Morris' clothes, but he didn't say anything except, "You took time out of your busy schedule to come and see me. I'm flattered." He smirked and added, "Where's your shadow?"  
  
Morris didn't reply for a moment; when he did, it was to say in a lifeless monotone, "Sully's dead."  
  
The trademark smirk faded from his face; something flickered in his winter gray eyes. "How?"  
  
"The bulls."  
  
"Morris-"  
  
"Don't."  
  
"I just-"  
  
He stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Don't, Spot-"  
  
Spot nodded, his face stony again. "Fine. Why come to me?"  
  
Morris swallowed and said slowly, "We need your help."  
  
He'd actually managed to shock Spot Conlon. "My help?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Morris knew he had a matter of moments to make his point before Spot's boys showed up and he was booted out of Brooklyn. "There ain't enough of us without the others."  
  
"And why come to me?" he asked, more to hear Morris' answer than to know the actual reason. That everyone knew: you want to win a fight, you get Brooklyn on your side.  
  
"If you join us, so will they. They fear you, they follow you. They respect you. Even I respect you, and I hate you," Morris couldn't resist adding.  
  
Spot smiled wryly, considering. Then he turned away. "I don't think I can help you, Cohen."  
  
"Dammit, Spot, Sully had to die before I'd come to you for help! Who else has to die before you'll give it?"  
  
The only sound was the lapping of the waves beneath the pier and the gulls flying overhead. Until Spot said quietly, "No one."  
  
"We can't give up!"  
  
David looked up at Annie with weary, bloodshot eyes. "Annie, we don't have a choice."  
  
"So that's it? We got back to work and Sully died for nothing?" Annie demanded.  
  
David opened his mouth to answer, when suddenly the door swung open and Blink ran in. He was breathless and shocked. "What is it?" David asked, sitting up.  
  
"It's Spot," he choked out.  
  
"What? Spot's here? In Manhattan?"  
  
"He'll be here-"  
  
"I'm here now."  
  
All eyes in the room turned to Spot. He had a way of doing that. Passing him on the street, someone might not think that the tall, skinny redhead with the faded pink suspenders was the leader of anything. But newsies all knew him on sight, whether they'd met him or not. It was in his eyes.  
  
"Spot," David said, standing.  
  
"Dave," he said briefly, then smiled slightly at Annie. "Heya, Annie."  
  
"Spot, look, not that it ain't great to see you, but why you here?" David asked before Annie could reply.  
  
Spot continued as if David hadn't spoken, "I heard about Sully. I'm sorry." It was only after Annie had nodded that he turned to Dave. "That's why I'm here. We can't let 'em do that to us, can't let 'em get away with it. So I say you keep at it, and my boys'll be over here in the morning to help you."  
  
"You're gonna help us?" David asked suspiciously.  
  
At Spot's nod, Blink said quietly. "We've got Brooklyn. That means we've got Queens and the Bronx."  
  
Annie broke in cheerfully, "It means we're gonna win!" She cast a sidelong glance at David, silently questioning.  
  
He shrugged, "Looks like it." 


	6. Chapter Six

A/N: And I quote myself from my last post: "I'll update soon." That was November. This is May. I have a strange- no, I have no- concept of time. Anyway, I could give excuses, but they'd probably be lies, so, here is chapter six of my still untitled story. Please R+R.  
  
Chapter Six  
  
Morning dawned bright and clear, filling the boys with new promise. They were up with the sun, planning and ready for anything else the papers could throw at them. They were going to win. Every single newsie knew it, felt it in their bones.  
Spot was true to his word. At dawn, a couple of Spot's boys were over from Brooklyn, to help with organization, muscle and morale. Spot's second in command was the leader of the little delegation. Racetrack Higgins was a smart mouthed Irish kid, tall and lanky, with light red hair and brown eyes that might have looked solemn if not for the smattering of freckles across his nose. He loved gambling, especially poker and the horse races, hence his nickname.   
Planning had always been Race's strong suit. His reasoning ability was what made him nearly unbeatable in a poker game. It wasn't luck, it was logic. Therefore, he reasoned, to unite the newsies to strike, they needed to get them together in the same place. A rally.  
David alone was skeptical. "We don't have the money for that, Race. We don't have anywhere to hold it…"  
Race smiled. "You heard of New Irving Hall? That place on Broome?"  
"The one that looks like it's about to fall down?" Annie replied.  
"That's the one. I can get it for Monday night."  
"Gonna use that famous Brooklyn charm, Race?" David asked, smirking.  
"The owner owes me money."  
"Does anyone in New York not owe you money?"  
Race grinned, boyish features lighting up. "Spot. And yer boy Morris."  
Annie's eyes fell at the mention of Morris and Race instantly realized his mistake. No one in the Manhattan lodging house had seen or heard from Morris since Sully died. Not even Spot or Race had seen him since the day after. He'd borrowed some clothes from one of the Brooklyn boys and took off, not telling anyone where he was going. He hadn't returned home, not even to get his own clothes. His stuff had almost been thrown out; would have been, if Spot hadn't paid Weisel to hold the bunk and locker. He'd done it quietly and out of sight of most of the newsies, either to save Morris's face or to keep up his 'hard as nails' Brooklyn leader image. Only Annie had seen him do it and it made her wonder just how much the two really hated each other.  
Everyone knew that the leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan didn't get along. It was an established fact. Brooklyn was the more powerful of the two, so they came to Manhattan whenever they pleased. Visitation from Manhattan was reserved strictly for special occasions. The leaders stayed away from each other.   
Only Manhattan's leader was gone.  
  
Little Italy was not the healthiest place for a Jew to stay. It was mostly Catholic, and Jews named Cohen and Catholics named Caspari generally didn't mix well in these parts. But it was the best place to get away from everything, and that was where Morris went after he went to Brooklyn to see Spot.   
All he had were the clothes he had borrowed from some kid in Brooklyn that looked about his size, and the money that had been in his pockets when the riot had gone sour. The clothes he had been wearing, the clothes stained with Sully's blood, he'd thrown over the bridge on his way back.   
He was almost out of money. Two dollars could only go so far, and he'd been away from the lodging house for three days almost. He had two quarters left, just enough for dinner, one night at the hotel, and breakfast Monday.  
Morris wasn't paying full attention to where he was going and he nearly tripped over a little boy. He looked down at the kid, who couldn't have been more than seven and definitely was a newsie. He was skinny and wearing worn old clothes. The little boy half-smiled and asked, "Are you a newsie?"  
Morris tried to smile back, but couldn't quite accomplish it. "I used to be."  
The little boy thought for a moment, then nodded. "Good enough," he said seriously, pressing a flyer into his hand and turned to walk away.   
"Wait a sec," Morris called. The boy turned and Morris handed him a quarter. "Thanks."  
As the boy ran away, shiny quarter tucked safely in his pocket, Morris looked at the flyer the boy had given him. It read:  
Newsies Rally  
Monday, July 24, 1899  
At New Irving Hall, 214 Broome  
Come Support the Newsboys!  
  
Morris stared at it so long, it began to blur before his eyes. Then he crumpled the paper up and tossed it to the ground, before striding away into the crowd. 


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N: An update!!!!!! I surprise myself! :) I promise I will finish this. Soon, too. Here's proof! And thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, you guys are great! (Except Twinks. She sucks hosewater, j/k)   
  
Chapter Seven  
  
New Irving Hall was small compared to many of the other theaters springing up in New York City. It was also run down, and owned by a compulsive gambler with no talent for cards and no luck. The newsboys were packed in. At last count, there was nearly two thousand inside and many more clustered around the building, playing craps or loitering on the sidewalk.   
  
Inside was a maelstrom of activity. The newsboys were restless, waiting for the speeches to begin and the food to be given out. Mush opened the rally, a little nervous about being in front of so many people, but his voice rang out clear and loud when he yelled, "Carryin' the banner!" The cheers rose up around him and he grinned as he continued. "We've got lotsa speakers here tonight, guys! All of them supporting us! So quite down and listen up!"  
  
Annie watched from backstage as Mush announced the first speaker, a announcer from the tracks that had been a newsie when he was a kid. Her mind wasn't on him, though, and it certainly wasn't on the kids milling around backstage.   
  
Suddenly there were arms around her waist and gentle lips at her cheek. She found herself wishing they weren't there as she turned to face Davey. "You nervous?" he asked her.  
  
She smiled tightly. "A little." Her eyes fell. "I wish Morris and Sully were here."  
  
His arms dropped from her waist. "Yeah, I know." He gave her a little push as the announcer moved offstage. "Go on then."   
  
Annie took a deep breath and walked onto the stage. She was wearing her best dress and her hair was neatly combed, but she still felt self-conscious. From her place on the middle of the stage, she could see everyone. Spot caught her eye from the front row and nodded a little, a reassuring smile in his eyes.   
  
"Heya, guys!" she called out, a bit of her confidence returning. They all cheered. "We've been working hard so far, and doing a great job!" More cheers, and her voice got stronger. "No matter what they do to put us down, we've got to hold on! Work together! We'll beat 'em!" she cried, right before she saw him.   
  
He was standing at the edge of the crowd, near the door, listening. She swallowed hard and stared directly at him, willing him to hear her. "Bad things have happened. We've lost one of our own. But we have to go on fighting! Giving up isn't the answer. It never has been. So don't! Fight! Don't let them keep us down!"  
  
He stared right into her eyes. He heard, and he understood. Then he turned away. She lowered her eyes. "That's… that's all I have to say."   
*  
He shouldn't have came. He knew it was a mistake, but he had needed to come, see how everyone was doing without him… without Sully. He clinched his hands into fists as he headed out of Irving Hall.   
  
"Morris!" Annie cried behind him.   
  
He stopped and turned. He forced a smile. "Heya, Annie."  
  
"Where have you been? I… We've been so worried about you!"   
  
Morris shrugged. "I couldn't stay. I just… I had to get away for a while."  
  
"And now? You're just gonna leave again?" Annie's eyes bore into his, angry and hurt.  
"You don't understand. I lost my best friend!" Morris pleaded.  
  
"I do understand. I know its hard. I miss him too but you can't give up. You have to do something!" she exclaimed. "What would Sully do?"  
  
"Sully's dead, Annie! He's dead because of me!"  
  
"You didn't shoot him! It's not your fault!"  
  
"He followed me, he listened to me! And it got him killed."  
  
"If you walk away, they'll get away with it! *They* killed Sully, Morris. Not you. And if can't see that…" She looked away. "Then maybe we don't need you." She bit down hard on her lip and her eyes filled, but she didn't take it back, just turned and walked back inside. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Very short chapter, but I wanted to update. Thanks again to all the reviewers. Your opinions mean a lot to me (yes, even your's Twinks... although not much....)! Oh, and a reviewer asked about Race. In the movie, he was Italian, but Higgins is an Irish or British name, so I made him Irish instead. Thanks a lot, and enjoy!   
  
  
Chapter Eight  
Monday was uneventful. The new policy of nonviolent protesting ensured that there were no fights and no riots. Not to say the newsies didn't keep the scabs from selling. But with the cops constantly standing guard at the distribution center, it wasn't the easiest thing to do.  
  
That was where things stood Tuesday morning, when the first- and in fact, only- newsie standing in line for his papes at the Journal headed out to sell them. There was a cop waiting there, staring at the small crowd of strikers off to the side, daring them to make a move. The kid stood beside the giant, a smirk on his snooty mug.  
  
Mush groaned in anger and leaned in to consult with his friends. "We make a move, that bull is gonna be all over us."   
  
Boots grimaced. "I know. We don't need anyone else getting arrested."  
  
"Or shot."  
  
Boots and Mush both turned to David, who was staring sullenly at his shoes. Mush nodded. "Or shot," he conceded with a sigh, looking down as well.  
  
Suddenly a fourth pair of boots joined theirs, familiar boots, scuffed and worn, accompanied by an even more familiar voice that softly asked, "Need any help?"  
  
They all looked up at the face that went with the voice. Morris looked pale and somber, but his eyes were hopeful. Boots and Mush looked to David, who, after staring at Morris for a moment, bobbed his head in an almost imperceptible nod.   
  
Mush grinned. "Welcome back." Before anyone could say another word, he continued with, "I have a plan."  
*  
Sergeant Thomas Stone was bored. The only reason he was stuck baby-sitting these dirty brats was because the chief hated him. If he was chief, things would be different. Namely, the annoying brat standing beside him would be rotting in the Refuge, like the scum he was, not being protected by New York's finest.   
  
He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice one of the strikers moving closer until it was too late, and the skinny kid had grabbed half of the little rat's papers and taken off through the square. Stone hesitated; he wasn't in the best of shape, and running after him would be tiring. But the little rat was yelling and Stone figured it was better to run after the striker than stay with the whiny brat. So he took off, huffing and puffing before he even got ten feet.   
*  
The scab knew he was in trouble as soon as the bull had dashed off. Behind him, the other three strikers moved in. A fist landed solidly against his chin; he had been right, he was in *big* trouble.   
  
A few punches later and it appeared like the newsies were done with him. The tallest of them offered him a hand. "You got a choice. We either work you over here, or you do the right thing. What's it gonna be?"   
  
The scab carefully wiped a smear of blood from his lower lip, then took the offered hand and it pulled him to his feet. His remaining papers tore as the four walked over them, but he didn't care. With a mental shrug, the boy thought, *If you can't beat 'em, join 'em*. 


	9. Chapte Nine

Chapter Nine  
  
Tuesday night, Morris, David, Blink and a crowd of other boys met outside the Journal. Their previous efforts had met with Hearst's resistance, so it was to Hearst that they now took the fight.   
  
The gates opened at eight o'clock, and a elegant carriage exited the gates. The boys, standing in the road, wouldn't let it pass. The driver yelled at them, but they yelled back. The driver seemed ready to run them over when Morris stepped forward and called out, "We're not leaving 'til you talk to us!"   
  
The boys fell silent as the passenger door of the carriage opened and a man stepped out. He was tall and thin, wearing elegant clothes. His hair was neatly combed. His skin was sallow and his face was thin, but his eyes burned bright in his face. Slowly he smiled at the boys, and Morris felt his blood run cold.   
  
Leisurely, the man stepped down from the coach. "You want to speak with me?" he asked, addressing Morris alone. "Then do come inside."  
  
*  
  
William Randolph Hearst always left the Journal building at five o'clock sharp. But with the strike going on and circulation down 67 percent, he had taken to staying later, trying to find ways to end the nuisance that was this strike. It was in his office that the plan to kill the leader had been hatched and it was in his office that his plan to buy the leader off began.   
  
But when he left the office, he hadn't expected to find the leaders right there. The boy in front was tall and thin, with thick black hair and ragged clothes. Fanning out behind him were at least fifteen other boys. They wanted to talk. Hearst allowed himself a smile as he confronted the young man who spoke up.   
  
This would be easier than he thought.  
  
*  
  
Hearst's office was the most beautiful thing Morris had ever seen. It was rich, with thick carpets that he would have loved to lay on and sculptures and paintings that baffled his imagination. He, David, Blink and Mush went up to the office, staring at the ornate decoration around them in unconcealed awe.   
  
Hearst settled himself in the stuffed chair behind his desk and smiled again. "So, boys, what did you want to talk about?"   
  
David moved forward, in front of the others. "The strike is doing damage to your business. Ours too. All we want is for the price to go back to normal and to go back to work."  
  
Hearst looked thoughtful. "I want you to go back to work as well. But you must understand my position. Prices of everything are rising. If I don't raise my prices, how am I to keep the paper at the standard it's in now?"   
  
"That's your business, Mr. Hearst. Ours is to make sure we don't starve or freeze."  
  
Hearst dismissed the argument with a flick of his wrist. "It's the middle of July, I doubt a night in Central Park would kill you."   
  
Morris moved to David's side. "Not in July. But what about in December? Or February? Can you guarantee that war will break out before then, that the president will be shot, that your headlines will be about something newsworthy, not the shortage of peaches in the Manhattan open market?"   
  
Hearst smiled. "I like you. You have… spirit." He lit his cigar and nodded. "Okay, I'll make you a deal." A rush of excitement flowed through Morris and he exchanged a look with David. "I'll pay you… what, say, four hundred dollars… to stop this nonsense."  
  
David shook his head, puzzled. "No, Mr. Hearst, we only want the prices to go down. No payment is-"  
  
"Fine then, four hundred each. Would that be enough to get you off my back and back on the streets where you belong?" Hearst smiled. "Selling papers, of course."   
  
"Are you trying to bribe us?" David asked, eyes wide.   
  
"I'd like to think of it as a deal between gentlemen. Bribe is such an ugly word."  
  
"So's murder," Morris said. "But you did that too, didn't you? You expect us to sell out, give up everything we've worked for. You're a fool."  
  
Hearst rose from his chair. "And you're no longer welcome here. Take your friends and go. But if you change your minds, the deal stands."   
Morris shook his head in disgust and stalked out angrily. David and Mush followed him, but Blink hesitated at the door, staring back into the lush office, before hurrying after his friends.   
  
*  
  
They were barely outside the heavy metal gates when a strong hand on Morris' arm spun him around. "Dave-" he started, but David's punch knocked him to the ground before he could say anything else. "What was that for!" he shouted, getting to his feet.   
  
"*I'm* the leader, Morris. Me. You left. You don't get to come waltzing back and just be leader again. It doesn't work like that."  
  
"That deal was a sham! We'd be betraying everyone if we took it!"   
  
"Well, it was up to me to say so! Not you! Not anymore!" Dave looked ready to hit him again. Instead he said, "This was a stupid idea anyway. Who ever thought we could win?" He turned away with a shake of his head and stomped off into the night.  
  
Blink looked torn between Morris and Dave, then followed Dave, calling back, "I'll talk to him. I promise!"  
  
"You okay?" Mush asked, helping him up.  
  
Morris nodded. "Yeah," he murmured, then forced a smile. "They'll be back." 


End file.
